Echoes Of The Past
by Tarma Hartley
Summary: From out of tragedy, a familiar face appears out of the shadows of the past and back into the life of the newly widowed Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. It was a face that had, many years earlier, broken his heart... and it was a face that he never stopped loving. Alternate Universe, Mystrade
1. Prologue: From Out Of Tragedy

_A/N: I do not own Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, Sergeant Sally Donovan or Anderson; they belong to the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC, Rupert Graves, Mark Gatiss, Vinette Robinson and Jonathan Aris. The plot and Police Constable Yates, Emily Lestrade, Tara Lestrade and other characters who show up briefly, however, are mine. :)_

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_From out of tragedy, a familiar face appears out of the shadows of the past and back into the life of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, a face that had, many years earlier, broken his heart... and a face that he never stopped loving..._

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

My second Mystrade fic! :) An Alternate Universe/tragedy/slice of life/hurt/comfort fic that will be a complicated piece of writing jumping forth between the present and the past. It will be interesting, to say the least, so I hope that I do a good job and manage to do the proper transitions at the proper time. I'll be using the same method that SoWrightSoWrong used with her PxE fic, _Shadows Passing, _with the present in regular text, the past in italics. It's basically a 'boy meets boy in the past, they fall in love but circumstances separate them, one boy moves on, marries and has a family while the other does not, although they never forget about each other, they don't see each other for years and, when tragedy strikes, boys meet again' story.

Hope you enjoy! :)

**Thanks** to my readers and all those who have favourited, reviewed, story alerted, favourite author or author alerted me. I appreciate it more than I can say! :)

**Thank you** to my beta reader, Pearls1990, for her AWESOME beta reading! Much appreciated! :)

**Special thanks** to my beloved husband, DezoPenguin, for all his help, support, advice, nagging (when necessary) and encouragement! I appreciate it more than I can say! Love you!

Comments are appreciated and welcome! :) I'll probably change some things at some point; always room for improvement! :)

Rated T, Alternate Universe/Hurt/Comfort/Drama, male/male relationships, Mycroft Holmes x Gregory Lestrade

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_September 21st, 2003  
New Scotland Yard  
10 A.M._

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade cursed softly as he sprinted across the parking lot, his grey trench-coat flying about his legs like broken wings as he raced into the building, dodging an outstretched arm as he flew under an officer's arm and muttering apologies as he ducked into the elevator. He leaned against the wall in order to catch his breath, looking at his watch and cursing again.

_Damn it, I'm late!_ His mouth twisted into a sour grimace as he watched the lit numbers slowly going by as the elevator continued its upward trek, tapping his foot impatiently. _Of all the times that Emmie_ had _to be difficult, this morning was_ not _a good time!_

He looked up at the passing floors, scowling when it stopped every now and again to pick up people that were waiting patiently outside the doors; he acknowledged greetings to some who worked either with him or on his floor with a lifted hand. _God, the Carson case is beginning to heat up and the Lawson case seems stalled right now although it might help if Anderson got the ball rolling! That's something else that I need to do at some point: to talk to Molly and get the forensics report back on the Simpson case; she _should_ have it completed by now!_

It had not been a good morning thus far. Emily, affectionately known as Emmie, his six months pregnant wife, had put her foot down and insisted that he eat a good breakfast, like it or not and refused to listen to him when he told her that he needed to get to work or he'd be late. After he'd left home, traffic was jammed for over an hour and he'd had to take a detour when one of the bridges was closed for repairs.

He'd heard that there had been an explosion after he entered New Scotland Yard-late, he ruefully admitted, because his wife had made certain that he'd eaten before he left-and now, that he was here and sprinting down the hall to his office, he wondered why it had gotten so quiet all of a sudden when it was normally a frenetic hubbub of activity that often spilled into the hallways.

He also wondered at the cause of the uneasy and pitying glances that he saw dispersed in the various people standing there like statues in a garden which was something else his sharp eyes picked up on immediately. He also wondered_ why_ some members of his team were trying to disuade him from going to the crime scene and what exactly the reasons for it were.

_Something's up. They've never acted like this before on a case... at least not like this._

It was indeed curious since the vast majority of people that worked closely under him had never, that he could recall, acted like this and it was clear to him that something was amiss. They refused to meet his gaze when he questioned them directly and noticed the uneasy glances that were passing between them.

He hadn't slept well the night before-there was something about a case that was troubling him-and his temper wasn't as stable as he would have liked; the surreptitious glances they were giving him as he raced into the Yard were really starting to annoy him. When he'd stepped into his office with the team following behind, he put his foot down, literally and figuratively, insisting that they tell him what the hell was going on and to quit acting like guilty schoolchildren.

A stunned and uneasy silence reigned for some time before Police Constable Hannah Yates, a new addition to Scotland Yard since September last, stepped hesitantly forward, her hands twining together and writhing like a nest of snakes. He noted that, while she was the nervous sort generally, that today she was even more restless than she normally was and waited for her to speak.

"Sir," she began hesitantly, looking toward Sally Donovan who stood off a little to the right, tense and silent, "there's-well... been..." She stopped, swallowed and then continued. "There's been an... _accident_..." Her voice trailed off again into an uncomfortable, strained silence.

_All _this_... over a bloody _accident_?! Of all days, today is _not_ the day to have to deal with something else! I have enough to deal with as it is!  
_

Lestrade closed his eyes and counted to twenty before he spoke. Twice. When he at last opened his eyes after some time had passed, he looked frostily at each and every face that had turned his way, and even a few that weren't. When he spoke, it was with a tinge of ice.

"There's been an _accident_? Is that _why_ you're all standing here like a bunch of guilty fools, whispering among yourselves?" He was annoyed and he let it show. "I expect _more_ professionalism from my team members and I bloody well demand honesty, as well, as_ you_ should know, P.C. Yates!"

He threw the file he carried in his hand on top of his desk that sounded like a rifle shot when it landed and Yates flinched, her brow furrowing as he turned his angry glare directly on her. "Now, I'll ask you one more time just _what_ the bloody hell is going on here and _why_ you're all doing your level best to avoid answering my question!"

Yates threw an inquiring look at Sgt. Donovan who nodded once, a grim look on her face. Lestrade felt a cold chill of fear wash over him at the look that passed between the two women although he did his level best not to show it outwardly. It wasn't really all that difficult since he really was angry.

There was something in that gaze that struck him to the heart which made the current situation he was facing at home that much worse. His wife of six years, Emily, was pregnant again and this time was proving to be very difficult for her; she'd already had one close call three months earlier and Lestrade couldn't help but to worry about her. He didn't want to have that occur again and she'd been ordered, by her physician, to complete bed rest. Dr. Greene, their regular physician who had known both Lestrade and Emily since they were children, had even admonished Lestrade to make sure that '_damnably stubborn hoyden_ does _it'_ which, as he well knew, she _wouldn't_.

He loved her but simply couldn't understand _why_ she refused to take the physician's advice, particularly since he knew that she was having trouble carrying this baby. That had been the source of countless arguments between them as of late and, coupled with the stress that he was feeling at work over the Lawson and Cameron murder cases, had driven him from their home to the pub more often than not which was another thing that he felt guilty about.

He'd remembered the latest flight from home a couple of days ago as he stood there, staring at Donovan and Yates; he'd commiserated with the bartender about the numerous ways that women drove menfolk crazy and, when he took a long draught from his pint, he couldn't help wishing that she would take the doctor's admonitions to heart. Contrary to her belief, the doctor _wasn't_ out to get her by any stretch of the imagination or even being beastly just for the sake of being beastly; he was _genuinely_ concerned for her welfare and had expressed this very clearly to Lestrade on more than one occasion over the past four months.

He had the notion that she probably felt, in his flights from home, that he was deserting her in her time of need although, bless her heart, she never said so. Given the stress he was under with this case and worrying about his _very_ stubborn wife, he couldn't help feeling that he had failed her both by not being there for her _and_ supporting her.

Emily was Emily, however and in the end he'd given up trying to convince her since she refused to take the doctor's advice anyway, going about her daily life much the same as she always had. If he was exasperated with his wife for this reason, he was genuinely enchanted by their four year old daughter, Tara. He smiled as he thought of her.

An even tempered child, she, like her mother, was blonde haired, green eyed with a small spate of freckles over her nose which only added to her charm rather than taking away from it. She was also a very active little girl and could be quite a handful when her temper flared or was up in arms about something but, generally, she was a very good, and precociously intelligent, little girl.

All of this was brought back to him in the look that passed between P.C. Yates and Sally Donovan and he knew, in an instant, that the news, whatever it was, _wasn't_ good.

His legs felt like rubber, threatening to to give out underneath him, a chill washing over him; both Yates and Donovan were at his side in an instant and helped him to his desk, Donovan pulling out the chair and then helping Yates settle him into it.

Yates put her hand on his shoulder, her face full of sympathy while his mind whirled in incomprehensible circles. He _knew_ that look and he also _knew_ that it didn't bode well; it was the same expression on any officer's face when they had tragic news to impart.

"We wanted to spare you, Sir," she said quietly. "Despite how it may have appeared to you,"-her eyes flickered over to Sgt. Donovan briefly and back- "we _weren't_ trying to be deliberately cagey or dishonest. We just... _didn't_ want you to be alone when you heard that..."

"Heard... _what_?" he asked hoarsely, his hands shaking.

Yates bit her lip, looking very uncomfortable. This was one aspect of her job that she really hated.

"There was an... explosion at 333 Drury Lane, Sir." She paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. "There... there were... _casualties_..."

Lestrade's eyes went wide, his mouth opening and closing but no sound emerged and it took an act of will just to keep breathing.

_333 Drury Lane is... Oh, dear God... it's_ my _house!_

Lestrade's face went white as the full implications of what P.C. Yates had just said sank in fully. There had been an explosion at _his_ home and there were _casualties_...

"Casualties..." He closed his eyes for a moment, counting to ten slowly twice before he opened them again. "How many... were there?" His voice sounded hopeful, praying that one of his family might have been spared. His hands were beginning to shake again and it took every ounce of willpower he possessed to try to keep them still although he could feel slight tremors.

P.C. Yates hesitated before she answered, taking a deep breath. "Two, Sir... actually," Yates corrected herself, swallowing hard, "three if you count the unborn child..."

"Oh... _God_...!" A moan of sorrow escaped from his tightly compressed lips before he had a chance to stop it and he pitched forward onto his desk, his hands cradling his head. He dimly heard the shouts in the background behind him as the fact that his family was dead became too horribly real.

_Emily... oh god... Tara!_

The tears came, flowing down his cheeks in a steady stream as his heart broke within him. Emily and Tara were dead... killed in an explosion at their home.

"_When_?" The question was pulled unwillingly from him, his voice rough with unshed tears.

"Sir?"

"_When_... did it... _happen_?"

"Nine forty-five this morning, Sir," Yates replied quietly and Lestrade couldn't suppress another sorrowful moan that rose from his throat, a stab of guilt piercing his heart. Where had he been at that time? Stuck in traffic, his finger tapping the steering wheel impatiently. What had he been doing? Railing against his wife in his mind and blaming her for his being so late among a plethora of other unpleasant thoughts while, unbeknownst to him, he was a widower.

He leaned forward, cradling his head on his crossed arms and wept.


	2. Chapter 1: A Familiar Face

_A/N: I do not own Mycroft Holmes, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Anderson, Molly Hooper or Sally Donovan; they belong to the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Rupert Graves, Jonathan Aris, Louise Brealey and Vinette Robinson, respectively. However, the plot and P.C. Yates are mine. :)_

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Newly widowed Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade is investigating on the explosion that killed his wife, daughter and unborn child. He is startled to see a familiar face, one that he hasn't seen in sixteen years._

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Chapter 1! :)

I know that there is a Drury Lane in London, England and my Drury Lane does not resemble the real one except in name. I'm using the name simply because I like it and not placing the story in where it really exists but outside of it. In this story, Lestrade's home is on the outskirts of London and not directly in it.

Hope you enjoy! :)

**Thanks** to my readers and all those who have favourited, reviewed, story alerted, favourite author or author alerted me. I appreciate it more than I can say! :)

**Thank you** to my beta reader, Pearls1990, for her **AWESOME** beta reading! Much appreciated! :)

**Special thanks** to my beloved husband, DezoPenguin, for all his help, support, advice, nagging (when necessary) and encouragement! I appreciate it more than I can say! Love you!

Comments are appreciated and welcome! :) I'll probably change some things at some point; always room for improvement! :)

Rated T, Alternate Universe/Hurt/Comfort/Drama, male/male relationships, Mycroft Holmes x Gregory Lestrade

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_September 21st, 2003  
333 Drury Lane  
London  
10:45 A.M._

He didn't remember how he got to his former home and swallowed hard when confronted by the full horror of what he had been told. He noted, in one portion of his mind that was still able to reason with some degree of clarity, that what he had been told in no way compared to what he was seeing spread out in front of him: Broken glass littered the lawn, mingling with the burnt remnants of what had once been kitchen items, ruined furniture scattered everywhere by the explosion that had ripped the place apart.

Two bodies lay silently on the front lawn and he deliberately tried not to look in that direction as he knew who they were... and that he had lost all three of his loved ones: Emily, Tara and their unborn child.

He couldn't bear to look at them... and felt someone's hand on his shoulder, steering him toward the curb in front of where his house once stood and was now no more than a heap of smoking rubble where he sat down, tears streaming from his eyes as he lowered his head into his hands.

_I'm so sorry,_ he thought despondently, _I'm so sorry I wasn't there..._

He sat there for a long time while the lawn hummed with activity. He lifted his head and, through tear stained eyes, thought he saw a familiar face standing five feet away from him, within the heart of the milling crowd of police, C.S.I.'s and people from the Coroner's Office. His eyes widened as he saw that familiar grin, the regal tilt of the head, the arching of eyebrows, that ginger hair, the umbrella he held in his hand, that familiar pose...

_Dear God..._ He rubbed his eyes hard, willing them to clear. His heart started to beat faster as he watched the mysterious figure. _That couldn't be..._ him... _could it?_

He shook his head hard and, when he looked over again, he was gone. It was almost as if he'd been a dream, disappearing like smoke in the wind once he woke and it brought back a plethora of feelings that he hadn't been aware that he'd had all these years and hadn't thought about in as long.

He remembered those halcyon days, a fresh wave of recriminations breaking within him. He'd failed his wife, he'd failed his daughter and he'd failed_ him_, the three people who meant everything to him.

He lost himself in memories, doing his level best not to break down. For now, it was enough.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_11:30 A.M._

Lestrade walked slowly around the ruined circumference of what had once been his home, his heart aching as he surveyed the wreckage. He had come at once when he'd heard the news from Sgt. Donovan and, the moment he stepped out of the police cruiser, he had to look away for a few moments in order to get himself under some kind of conscious control.

It was worse than he could have ever imagined and he had to steel himself in order to begin the familiar walk down the sidewalk; he could see the ruins of the wishing well that had once stood in the front yard, now burned and blackened, grey and white chips flaking together and drifting silently to the debris-littered ground, scattered by a chill wind that had suddenly blown up.

Lestrade shivered, pulling the corners of his grey trench-coat collar together, swallowing hard, the lump in his throat so large that it threatened to choke him. His thoughts traveled back to the discussion he and Emily had had before he'd left for work earlier that morning, his eyes being drawn to where the kitchen window once was and he remembered what had happened earlier this morning...

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Earlier that morning...  
8 A.M._

_"Good morning, poppet," Lestrade said as he passed by his daughter, who was seated at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of her favourite cereal and planted a soft kiss on the top of her blonde head._

_She grinned as she looked up, the corners of her mouth a light blue colour as she reached up and pulled his head down to her level, planting a wet kiss on his cheek, smiling impishly. He smiled at her briefly before he turned to face his wife who stood at the stove, cooking a panful of scrambled eggs._

_"Mmm," he murmured softly, his arms resting lightly on her hips, pulling her forward and planting a kiss tenderly on her lips which she warmly returned, "that smells wonderful."_

_She wrinkled her nose playfully at him. "It will be ready soon so go sit at the table and I'll bring it over to you."_

_He shook his head, reaching around her to snatch a piece of buttered toast that lay on the counter beside the stove, taking a large bite._

_"Sorry, darling," he said, chewing quickly and swallowing, "but I'm already running late so I won't have time to -"_

_She didn't reply but gave him that look and he swallowed hard before he made his way to the table and sat down. There was no dealing with her when she gave him that look and he knew it. From out of the corner of his eye, he saw his daughter grin and heard the soft, smothered snicker that she was trying to hide._

_He gave her a severe look and that made her laugh outright. His face softened as she did so, her green eyes sparkling with undisguised mischief._

_"I don't need any lip from you, young lady," Lestrade said with mock severity while Tara giggled, "I get enough of that from your mother."_

_"Go on with you, Gregory," she replied, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she set a full plate on the table in front of him and winking at her daughter, "you eat up now. You can't go to work on an empty stomach."_

_"What would I do without you, Em?" he asked, a hint of teasing in his voice as he picked up his fork and dug in, relishing each and every delicious bite._

_"Starve," she replied primly and both Lestrade and Tara laughed before they went back to their respective breakfasts under Emily's watchful, and maternal, eye..._

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Emily..._

"...Sir?" a worried voice broke through his reverie and he jumped slightly, startled at the intrusion that had broken so violently into his thoughts, giving his head a slight shake.

P.C. Yates looked at him uncertainly, her brow creasing with worry. ""Are you all right, Sir?" she asked again, her voice thick with concern.

He nodded quickly, swallowing over the lump that he could feel forming in his throat. "Yes," he replied, hating himself for the lie, raking his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. "I'm... _fine_, Yates, thank you."

She didn't look convinced but, to his relief, she dropped the subject and he moved on across the lawn and up to the ruined front door that was lying at an awkward angle on the sidewalk ten feet from the house.

He didn't see Yates start to make her way over to him nor did he see Donovan shake her head hard, sending her a warning glance to let him be, that he needed his space to work things out in his own way and wouldn't appreciate being coddled. She plainly wasn't happy about that but concurred with Donovan, nodding curtly as she stopped, pivoted on her heel and started walking over to the ambulance.

He fought down the sorrow that rose in him; if ever there was a time that he needed to think clearly and bot under an emotional strain, this was it.

_Don't think... don't feel... concentrate on the job... Don't think... don't feel... concentrate on the job._ This mantra had served him well over the years-he doubted that he could have dealt with everything that he had seen over his career if he hadn't-and he exercised it to the limit at the present. He couldn't bear to look again on the bloodied sheets that covered the broken bodies of his wife and child and did his best to avoid looking in that direction.

_Focus on the job; look for clues to explain why this tragedy happened and never mind that the victims are your own wife and child._ He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. _Mourn later; for now, we have work to do._

_Don't Think. Don't Feel. Concentrate On The Job._ Lestrade had never felt more like a hypocrite than he did now. He'd often given the newer members of New Scotland Yard this same advice when they had to deliver news of a loved one's death, be it from accident, murder or other cause; it wasn't a pleasant job by any stretch of the imagination and he could recall how many of them had come to him, troubled and heart sore. Now that the shoe was on the other foot, he found it to be the most useless phrase that held no comfort at all... and did nothing to quell the pain in his heart at the loss of his family.

_Don't Think. _

_Don't Feel._

_Concentrate On The Job._

God, how he hated it.

He made his way down what remained of the sidewalk and toward the taped off section of the ruined house, biting his lip hard and clenched his hands into fists as he stepped over the threshold.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_September 22nd, 2003  
333 Drury Lane  
London  
1 A.M._

He'd worked without stopping for hours, trying to drive away every possible thought of where he was and what he was working on. He wasn't exactly certain at what point he had collapsed and that Yates, calmly but firmly, with the backing of Sally Donovan, made him take a break sometime around eleven o'clock. He protested but was unable to override either Donovan or Yates and, as he made his way sulkily to the curb and plunked himself down, his fingers twining on top of his bent knees, he cursed under his breath again.

_Remind me never to get on the bad side of either of those damnable women,_ he thought irritably although with a touch of admiration for their tenacity, _they must be taking lessons in cheek from my wife._ He knew that they meant well but it still nettled him to be ordered about like a naughty schoolboy; after all, _he_ was _their_ boss and not the other way around!

After some time, the anger began top drain slowly away and, once it was gone reality came crashing down in on him with a vengeance. He cringed noticeably as excruciating pain stabbed him in the heart and tears pricked the corners of his eyes but he didn't have the strength to lift his hand to wipe them away and just sat there, stunned and in agonizing pain, as the tears flowed freely down his face.

It was pitch black when at last he was aware of the world again and it startled him when he realized that he was now alone, the eerie stillness that surrounded him deafening.

He wiped his eyes, rubbing them hard in an effort to clear them. His nose felt like it was the size of an apple and he wasn't sure exactly how long he'd been sitting here while the world went on around him. For a moment, he was angry. He'd just lost his family, his home and his life a few hours earlier and it seemed that no one cared.

He knew it was base of him but he really didn't care all that much; he was in unbelievable pain and there was no one there to comfort him. He wished that Donovan was at least here but he didn't even have that small comfort. He'd never felt so alone in his life.

He wasn't even sure that who he had thought he had seen in the crowd earlier had even been there to begin with. Perhaps it was just a trick of the mind; perhaps it was an unspoken wish, or simply just wishful thinking. He didn't know and it troubled him.

He was exhausted and didn't even have the energy to rail against fate any longer or even to move. He could feel fresh tears welling up in his eyes and this surprised him; he'd shed so many over the course of the day since he'd heard the news that he was certain that he didn't have any left and this fresh wave brought back the sorrow all _too_ keenly.

He leaned forward, his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking as he fought to stop the deluge that threatened to overwhelm him with despair. He felt so lost that he was having trouble trying to think of what his next move should or would be; he was in so much pain that that was all that really registered in his mind right now.

A polite cough from his right brought him back into reality with a jolt and his head whipped up, his hands falling away from his face as an angry barrage of words leaped to his lips and he prepared to let them loose when he got a good look at who it was that was standing there beside him...

The words died in his throat, his shocked eyes widening, his mouth working but no sound emerging. He lifted a shaky hand that was tenderly caught as Mycroft Holmes sat down beside him, bringing it to his lips and kissing it gently, pressing it against his cheek.

"My...My...Myc..." he croaked when at last his mouth could work again, flushing when a stuttering croak was all that he could manage. His throat hurt like hell and he still had trouble focusing. It felt like a surreal dream but it was real... as real as that solid arm that surrounded him and that solid hand that held his trembling one so tenderly. "What...why...?" He stopped.

"_Emily_... _Tara_..." he began again but his voice caught and he couldn't say anything more. Mycroft took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, his fingers tightening around his shoulder.

"I know. I heard... what happened." Mycroft's voice was imbued with sorrow, holding Lestrade close as he rocked from side to side in misery, loud, keening wails being ripped from deep within him. "I'm so sorry for your loss, Gregory, truly I am..."

Lestrade shook as barely concealed sobs bubbled up from deep within him and he surrendered as Mycroft put his free arm around him, giving him the shoulder that he needed so badly, holding him until he could pull himself together. He rested his head against Lestrade's, crooning soft words of comfort.

Through his tears and loud, racking sobs, he thought he heard Mycroft whispering, "It's all right Gregory; I'm here. I'll stay here by your side." Silence, a tender kiss planted on the top of his head and a whispered pledge: "I won't leave you again, I promise..."-a slight hesitation- "..._beloved_..."


	3. Chapter 2: The Heart's Siren Song

_Kickin AWESOME AWESOME AWESOME cover image is a commission that RedPassion did for me! THANKS! :)  
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX_

_A/N: Gregory Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes do not belong to me; they belong to the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC, Rupert Graves and Mark Gatiss, respectively. The plot, however, and the other boys at the boarding school, and the boarding school itself, are mine._

_XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX_

_The past intrudes on the present as the newly widowed Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade seeks comfort from Mycroft Holmes, whom he hasn't seen for sixteen years. The tragic loss of his family has shaken Lestrade to his very core and Mycroft is uncertain at just what he can do to try and relieve his pain but his heart has a solution and its tantalizing siren song is too strong to ignore for long..._

_XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX_

Chapter 2! :) The boarding school where both Mycroft and Lestrade attended is one I made up and not based on any actual school. I like Lestrade as a punk kid as a teenager but a decent person all around who stands up to bullies, does what is right and sides with the underdog; I see Mycroft as being a very unhappy teenager and probably being bullied because he much more intelligent than his schoolmates and for the fact-at least here in this story-of his father being an Ambassador. He would be painfully shy and reticent around the other boys who would think that he's being snooty and pay him back in various ways such as shunning, bullying and teasing. Until Lestrade shows up, that is; after awhile, Mycroft comes out of his shell and starts to blossom, as it were... along with feelings for Lestrade.

I've entitled this chapter _The Heart's Siren Song_ since the pull of their hearts is getting too strong to ignore but Mycroft doesn't listen for awhile; he knows that Lestrade is in agonizing pain over the loss of his family and _doesn't_ want to take advantage of him like this although it seems that Lestrade himself has _other_ ideas...

I know a little British slang but not much and I hope that I have the right expressions.

In case you're wondering about the discrepancy in the chapter number in the new chapter alert and the chapter number now, its because I goofed. I forgot to change the chapter number before I posted the chapter so that's why it appears as "chapter 3" in the alert when its actually "chapter 2." Oops!

Hope you enjoy! :)

**Thanks** to my readers and all those who have favourited, reviewed, story alerted, favourite author or author alerted me. I appreciate it more than I can say! :)

**Thank you** to my beta reader, Pearls1990, for her AWESOME beta reading! Much appreciated! :)

**Special thanks** to my beloved husband, DezoPenguin, for all his help, support, advice, nagging (when necessary) and encouragement! I appreciate it more than I can say! Love you!

Comments are appreciated and welcome! :) I'll probably change some things at some point; always room for improvement! :)

Rated T, Alternate Universe/Hurt/Comfort/Drama, male/male relationships, Mycroft Holmes x Gregory Lestrade

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_September 15, 1977  
Walsingham's School For Boys  
Outskirts of London, England  
2 P.M._

"_The name's Gregory... Gregory Lestrade." He smiled charmingly as he looked down at the half prone figure on the floor, stretching out his hand to the other boy so he could grasp it and help him to his feet. "Are you all right? You took quite a nasty tumble there..."_

_The other boy looked up at his liberator with wide open eyes, his mouth pressed into a firm, unhappy line as he struggled to keep his emotions in check as he scrambled uncertainly to his feet, letting go of Lestrade's hand and brushing off his school uniform. He'd been picked on relentlessly by the other boys ever since he had arrived at this school. Ever since they had found out who his father was, young Mycroft's life became almost unbearable. _

_Until _he_ had come to his rescue. All fists, black short cropped hair, finely chiseled features, dimples and a winning smile, he had made it very clear to the other boys that his torment had come to an end and, if anyone dared bother him again, he'd take care of the miscreant himself. Personally._

_One lad, a strapping fifteen year old with bad teeth and an attitude to match, obviously wasn't impressed by Lestrade's warning since he pushed Mycroft off the fifth stair from the top and he tumbled to the ground, landing in an untidy heap of limbs and knapsack at the bottom much to the amusement of the other boys who crowded around him taunting and laughing. _

_Mycroft did his best not to cry but, to his horror and shame, he could feel his lip trembling and tears beginning to course down his chubby cheeks; the more he tried to stop it, the faster they seemed to fall. His classmates' taunts and laughter grew louder in his ears and he clapped his hands over them in order to shut out the horrible noise... _

"_STOP!" There was a loud shout that came from somewhere behind him and, form his position on the marble floor, Mycroft started at the commanding note in it. To his amazement, the taunts and laughter immediately ceased, replaced by an eerie stillness. _

_After a few moments when no one moved or said anything, he slowly took his hands away from his ears and, sitting up into a half prone position, turned to look slightly behind him and was very surprised to see Lestrade standing there, his face brick red with anger._

"_What the bloody hell is wrong with you lot?!" he went on, glaring at each of the boys assembled there in turn, some shuffling guiltily while others glared back at him and some refused to meet his gaze directly."He's done nothing to you so why are you tormenting him?!"_

"_He's a bloody prat!" someone shouted from the back of the throng and others responded with similar sentiment._

"_Yeah! He's a knobby kneed lackwit, too!" another tow-headed boy next to Lestrade offered but shrank away when Lestrade fixed his killing glare directly on him._

"_And you lot are the top of the line?" Lestrade scoffed openly and dismissively. Some of the boys had the decency to blush and look ashamed. He'd come here immediately once he'd gotten wind of what had happened ten minutes earlier and he was enraged at what they'd done, marching straight over to see what he could do to help. This boy brought out the protective side of him for some reason that he couldn't really fathom; he reasoned it may have been because he detested bullies and had been frequently bullied himself when he first arrived here two years earlier. _

_He'd been pretty much left to himself after he'd taken on some of the worst offenders and knocked them silly and word soon got round that Lestrade was not to be reckoned with. He got along with some of the boys, this was true, but he never really had what he would consider to be a real friend._

_Until now, that is._

_Later that day, true to his word, he'd marched straight over, grabbed him by the collar and proceeded to show this beefy bully that he meant exactly what he'd said: Mycroft Holmes was to be left alone. From that day on, none of the kids bothered him. _

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_September 23, 2003  
2 A.M._

Mycroft held Lestrade as he wept, his body shaking violently from the intense emotion that poured from him in waves.

He couldn't help but feel a little stab of jealousy at how Lestrade wept for his deceased wife but he firmly put that poisonous thought out of his mind all together. At one fell swoop, the man he still loved had lost his entire family at one blow; how could he let his ugly feelings get in the way? He was clearly in need of help and he was bound and determined to give it to him in whatever form he chose.

Mycroft's fingers grasped Gregory's shoulder tightly as he leaned into him, loud, racking sobs being torn from deep within him. He hated seeing him like this: so broken, so bereft and so alone but he couldn't ignore the fact that Lestrade needed him and he would stay and offer him what comfort he could.

_I suppose one doesn't stop loving someone just because they're apart, _he thought as he looked down on the half prostrate, grief stricken man, his eyes misting. _I admitted to myself some time ago that Gregory is the man I love, and have loved, all these years and, given the chance, I would try and rekindle our relationship. _His eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth turning down._ But not like this..._

He couldn't help the painful beating of his heart, though, and he knew better than to even try. He was still deeply in love with Gregory and the passage of the years, their separation, even Gregory and Emily's marriage, hadn't changed that one bit.

_Strange how that works, isn't it? _Mycroft lifted his head, staring into the velvety black sky for a few moments before he looked down at Lestrade again. _You've always had my heart, Gregory ever since that day. _He crooned soothing words softly, stroking Lestrade's sweat-soaked locks tenderly. _Did you ever know that it tore my heart into tiny pieces to leave you or did you think I felt nothing as you fell apart? _He closed his eyes against the sting of tears he could feel forming in them._ The truth is, it nearly killed me to leave you and I couldn't get the image of your face out of mind, no matter how much time went by._

He swallowed hard as he remembered...

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_September 15, 1977  
Walsingham's School For Boys  
Outskirts of London, England  
2:45 P.M._

"_The other lads really aren't so bad once you get to know them," Lestrade continued, wishing to put the other at ease since he still looked uncomfortable, "and some of them are pretty good blokes all around." He smiled gently, cuffing the other playfully on the shoulder while the other boy simply stared at him, his mouth working though no words emerged._

"_Really," he went on, oblivious to the other boy's reactions as he walked over and picked up his navy blue knapsack from the floor and hoisted it over his shoulder, "they aren't all a bad lot but just the same I'd steer clear of Steven Poshe; he's as nasty as they come." He proceeded to walk toward the ivy covered dorm building at a quick pace and Mycroft hurried after him, his breath coming in quick, ragged pants._

_Lestrade talked the whole way there although Mycroft didn't say much at first since he was so busy trying to catch his breath. He never said much until they were safely ensconced in the room that they were to share together as mates. Mycroft couldn't believe that this handsome, cocky and quite personable young man actually _wanted_ to room with him! _

_He couldn't remember a time when any of the boys had ever said a kind word to him although Gregory went out of his way to be nice to him and Mycroft really couldn't figure out why. When the others had found out that his father was an Ambassador, they either steered clear of him or tormented him ceaselessly; this lad didn't care and had made it very clear that he would accept him on his own merits and not because of his parentage._

What kind of person does that? _Mycroft wondered as he watched Lestrade put away his things and then began sorting through his own. _And how could he possibly...?

_There had to be some trick to it, of that Mycroft was sure of. Despite what some of the other boys thought, he was nobody's fool. He knew that the other boys hated him and he suspected that it was because of who his father was that lay at the root of it. _

_He wasn't exactly certain what his game was and he couldn't imagine why anyone would willingly associate himself with him... unless it was to set him up for some kind of trickery later. Perhaps he and the group that he tended to hang out with were behind this in order to humiliate him in front of the whole school; that was within the realm of possibility._

_Mycroft had been surprised by the air of sincerity that had accompanied the words; he'd meant exactly what he'd said just as he'd meant what he'd said to the boys who were tormenting him. This Lestrade was a person of his word and, more importantly, he could be trusted not to hurt him like the others had. _

_As he continued talking and buzzing about the room helping him get settled in to their new digs, Mycroft couldn't keep his bluish-grey eyes from wandering over to him and locking directly on him. _

_There was something about this Lestrade that he hadn't found in any of the others he'd met: a genuine good egg. Most of the other lads had recoiled from the very thought but this one was different... in more than one way._

_Just _how_ different Mycroft would find out in a few months time but, for now, one thing had been made very clear to him._

_He'd found a real friend._

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_September 23, 2003  
333 Drury Lane  
London  
3 A.M._

Lestrade fell silent, an occasional hiccuping sob erupting, Mycroft still holding him close and whispering soothing words. He wished that he could take all this pain away from him but he knew that he couldn't and he resolved to help Gregory in any way that he possibly could.

He hated seeing him in so much pain but, as he well knew, he had to go through it before he could start to heal. Mycroft thought that this was damnably unfair; Gregory was a good man, always had been and for Fate, kismet or whatever to treat him so abominably, it angered and galled him.

He railed against the cruel deck that he'd been dealt but, really, what good would that do? It wouldn't bring back Gregory's family so why waste precious energy in raging against something that couldn't be changed?

Mycroft looked down at Lestrade, who was looking back up at him with a most curious expression. His eyes, red rimmed and heart-sore, stared at him with what appeared to be a mixture of pain and... something else although he really couldn't place exactly what that was at the moment. He didn't move for some time and Mycroft wondered what was going through his mind as he lay half prone in his arms.

Another memory intruded, this one of his mother and what happened later that night when he sought comfort from Gregory...

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_March 20, 1978_  
_8:25 P.M._

"_Are you alright, Mycroft?" Lestrade asked, his face creased with concern as the other boy leaned against the door of their shared dorm room, a very odd expression on his face. He looked as if he had been crying since his normally white skin was mottled with red._

"_I-it's... home," Mycroft managed to get out. He'd been standing at the door for twenty minutes, wondering whether or not he should knock._

_"What about it?" Lestrade took a step forward, extending his hand which Mycroft grabbed and held tightly in his own, his eyes swimming and his fingers trembling."Is something wrong?" He was having difficulty trying to understand what had upset the boy although it was very clear that something had. "Did anything happen...?_

_Mycroft nodded, sniffling. His throat hurt so much that he couldn't talk._

_Lestrade didn't hesitate; he grabbed his hand and quickly pulled him inside the room and slamming the door behind him, locking it quickly, his eyes narrowing in concern. He led Mycroft over to the bed and sat him down on it before climbing on himself, still holding his hand as he settled himself next to him. _

"_Did anything happen...?" he asked again once they were both settled._

_Mycroft nodded, too overcome with emotion to speak but squeezing his hand hard in response which told Lestrade everything he needed to know and he at least had a start to find out what had brought Mycroft here in this state._

"_Something happened." He paused a moment, thinking. "Was it... at home?"_

_Mycroft nodded again, swallowing hard, still unable to speak, deep hitching breaths interspersed with mewls of pain._

"_It's something at home..." Lestrade bit his lip, thinking back to the conversations he'd had with Mycroft over the past six months. He knew that he'd been worried about something and his cryptic comments when he asked what was wrong only added to the conviction that there was something amiss back at Mycroft's home. _

_He recalled him saying at one point that his mother was ill or something like that and he wondered if that was the reason that had sent him coming back to their shared dorm room when he was supposed to be at a his club meeting._

_Mycroft nodded, tears springing into his eyes. "It's... my... my... mother..." he said at last. "She's... she's..." He couldn't continue but started to cry, loud choking sobs erupting from him, scalding hot tears spilling down his cheeks._

_He pulled Mycroft hard against him and let the other boy cry himself out._

"_It's alright, My," he soothed, stroking his ginger hair with a gentle hand, kissing the top of his head tenderly. "It will be alright. Promise." _

_They stayed that way for some time in silence. Mycroft was trembling but it wasn't for the reason that Gregory thought it was but for another _very_ different reason._

_He was falling in love with Gregory Lestrade, had fallen in love with him some months ago, if he was honest with himself. And he hadn't a clue how to tell him. For now, news of his mother's sudden death overwhelmed the teenager with a pain that he hadn't experienced in his life_ _and for awhile, held safely in Gregory's arms, he could forget his present sorrow._

_When Mycroft had at last cried himself out an hour or so later, he leaned away from Lestrade after a final sniffle, to see him staring at him... with quite a curious expression on his face. He looked like he was ..._hesitating,_ for some reason and he didn't know _why _his friend was looking at him so strangely like that, his heart beginning to quicken in his chest._

_Mycroft couldn't quite place what that look actually was but he didn't appear to be angry which relieved him. Gregory was the only true friend he really had and he didn't want to lose him even though there were a whole new plethora of warring emotions to deal with that he had no idea how to process, let alone try to understand._

"_Gregory? Why are you looking at me like that?" Mycroft's voice was anxious. "Did I... did I... offend you in some way?"_

"_No," he replied, his eyes burning with that unfathomable, penetrating look that made Mycroft feel so odd inside. He shook his head, that odd, penetrating stare never leaving his face. "No... you haven't offended me." He looked like he was debating something and engaging in a fierce struggle within for his expression kept changing as he sat there._

_Mycroft's heart was thudding painfully in his chest; he was painfully aware of the blood pounding in his ears and he flushed a dirty red._

"_I'm... sorry..." Mycroft began, his eyes filling with tears. "I...I don't know why I'm feeling so strangely..." He paused a moment, trying to get his chaotic thoughts in some kind of rational order. "I-I guess it's because of my... mother but I..." He flushed even redder. What exactly _were _these conflicting thoughts and feelings for Lestrade? "I just want... I-" He stopped, feeling like a fool over his inability to state what was on his mind since he really wasn't certain._

_He took a deep breath and was about to speak but he didn't get a chance to say a word before Lestrade pulled him hard against him, looking deeply into his eyes, his hand smoothing Mycroft's hair shakily, his eyes boring holes into his own._

"_G-Gregory?" he stuttered, trembling as his friend's arms wrapped themselves around him and held him so tightly that he had trouble breathing. "Are... are you alright? You look-"_

_His mouth possessed his in a bruising, passionate kiss and Mycroft's eyes popped wide open in surprise at the power behind it but didn't fight it, melting in Lestrade's passionate embrace._

_At that moment, Mycroft knew what he wanted... what he'd wanted for months: Lestrade. His own arms wrapped themselves around his friend and pulled him in deeper, their mouths moving hard against each other._

_Mycroft's heart sang... and Lestrade's answered._

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_September 23, 2003  
333 Drury Lane  
London  
3:20 A.M._

Gregory's eyes glittered with that same undefinable emotion and Mycroft could feel his cheeks start to burn, blood pounding in his ears and painfully aware of memories of the past. He hadn't had _this_ reaction for quite some time and it shook him a little with its reemergence after all these years.

His tongue quickly feathered over too dry lips. "Gregory-" he began but Lestrade didn't let him finish. He lunged upward, his hand grabbing the back of his neck and pulling his head down toward his.

"My," he pleaded, his eyes burning with a desperate need, "please... I... I _need_ you-" The word came out with a pained sob.

Mycroft's bluish-gray eyes widened as he finally realized exactly _what_ Gregory was asking him to do. He _couldn't._

"Gregory, no- I... I...can't. I-" Mycroft stood, doing his best to try and push Lestrade away from him, to deny him what he was plainly begging him to do. He couldn't do that... not now, when Gregory was so raw and full of pain at the loss of his wife and children and certainly not here where they had died.

Lestrade pulled his head forward, pressing his lips hard against Mycroft's. His eyes popped open, muffled exclamations of surprise buzzing against Gregory's lips which increased when Gregory quickly undid the buttons of Mycroft's shirt and pulled it off with a quick yank, dropping it on the ground.

_No!_ Mycroft pulled himself back with a muffled oath, breaking the kiss violently and pushing Gregory away from him. He felt sick at his own desire and he couldn't help but feel that he was intruding on something he had no right to.

He reached down and picked up his shirt and quickly put it back on, ignoring Lestrade's plaintive pleas. Lestrade looked at him pleadingly but Mycroft shook his head and turned away as he pulled out his cell phone, quickly dialing a number and having a brief conversation with someone on the other end before he hung up.

A few minutes later, his limousine pulled up beside the curb, stopping beside them and Mycroft pulled Gregory to his feet, marching him over to the vehicle. Anthea leaned over and opened the door and Mycroft quickly pushed him inside before clambering in after him.

The ride back was mostly silent although Lestrade did moan in pain from time to time and Mycroft hastened to soothe him until he quieted again. His mind was whirling with conflicting thoughts and didn't know what else he could do except take him to his home for a good night's rest. What was clear, however, was that Gregory was falling apart and he didn't know what he could do to help him. Shades of the past only it was Gregory seeking Mycroft's comfort and not the other way around.

Anthea helped Mycroft slowly walk Lestrade down the sidewalk, up the stairs and into the foyer. She stayed there for a few minutes to make sure that all was well and that her employer could handle the situation from here. Mycroft nodded his assurance as he held Lestrade's slumped form gently in his arms. She bowed her head once in acknowledgement before she turned and walked out of the foyer and onto the porch, closing the door quietly behind her.

Once she had left and Mycroft could hear the vehicle driving away, he turned to see Lestrade with that odd expression on his face once again. He looked so desperate and lost that he hurt for him but he _had _to be firm; he _couldn't _give Gregory what he so desperately wanted since now was not the time for that and particularly not when he was in such pain over the loss of his family.

Mycroft would _not _take advantage of the situation although he badly wanted to. He might be ruthless when it came to matters of the British government but he wasn't when it came to Lestrade and he refused to give in to the feelings that were rushing over him.

"Please, My..." Lestrade refused to let go, grabbing on to Mycroft and holding him fast, pulling the bottom of his shirt up and tugging at it. "I need you...I _need_ you so badly..."

"Gregory, please..." Mycroft swallowed hard as he could feel Lestrade's hand slowly traveling up his side, his fingertips brushing his cheek gently. "Please..."

Mycroft's face burned. "I … I _can't _do what you're asking. It's _indecent_! I-"

"Please..." It came out as a broken whisper. "Don't _you_... want _me_, My...?"

Mycroft closed his eyes, swallowing hard. Even this late after the explosion, there were still had been little puffs and thin tendrils of smoke drifting on the wind and he was fully aware of what had happened here nearly twenty-four hours ago. It seemed like he was taking advantage of Lestrade's tragedy, for some reason, but he could see that hungry pleading begging him to do what he, himself, _very _much _wanted_ to do.

He tore his gaze away from those desperate eyes; he couldn't look at him.

"Please, My... Please..."

"I... can't."

"Don't _you_... want _me,_ My?" Lestrade repeated brokenly, his hands moving up and over his body, his breath coming in hitching sobs. He felt his fingers touching the top button on his shirt and he froze, his body tingling with desire. "Don't... you...?"

_Oh, God...! _

"Yes, Gregory," Mycroft said with a loud groan, his voice tight with unspoken emotion as he felt Lestrade unbuttoning the remaining three buttons on his shirt and take it off of him, letting it fall to the floor with a soft whisper. "I've... wanted nothing more for sixteen years."

Lestrade gave him a hungry look and, with Mycroft's help, made their way up the stairs and into Mycroft's bedroom.

Lestrade looked at him, his hands caressing his bare skin with growing hunger and need, his hands snaking around his sides, slumping against him as his lips started nibbling his exposed skin with practiced nips in places he knew would drive Mycroft crazy with desire.

And he did, his tongue following wherever his teeth nibbled, alternately sucking and nibbling until Mycroft thought he would go mad from the pleasure of it. Mycroft closed his eyes, moaning quietly as Lestrade continued to kiss, lick and nibble him, his hands roaming wherever he could reach, moaning with desire himself as he did so.

"Gregory-!" It was a hoarse cry that spoke once again to reason but Lestrade wasn't listening as he continued to stroke and caress his former lover. His resistance broke down and Mycroft's arms wrapped around Gregory, half slumped against him.

He lifted anguished eyes and Mycroft's head bent down, their lips meeting in a tender kiss that quickly turned passionate, both men moaning in pleasure. Mycroft's hands slowly traveled up Lestrade's sides and cupped his face, lips devouring each other as they deepened the kiss as he clung to him, biting Mycroft's lips in an animalistic fashion as raw passion swept over him.

They kissed for a long time, each taking what they needed before they tumbled onto Mycroft's bed and continued their exploration of each others bodies, their desperate, scraping passion seeking release.

"My..." Lestrade's voice was raw as he removed the rest of Mycroft's clothing and tossed it on to the floor, Mycroft doing the same as they wrestled back and forth, their mouths devouring each other like two ravenous animals.

"Gregory..." Mycroft moaned and no other words were said as he took possession of Lestrade over and over throughout that long night, his heart pounding in his chest as they joined together in a timeless dance.

It was heaven and his heart sang as he and Gregory made love until the sun rose and into the early afternoon, two battered and bruised hearts that needed each other, each providing comfort for the other before falling asleep. Lestrade was nestled tightly in Mycroft's arms, his head pressed against his heart, both men dreaming of school days gone by.


End file.
